


Everything In Its Place

by notjustmom



Series: Doodahs and Whatnots [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, Angst and Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom





	Everything In Its Place

He didn't know what time it was when he finally made it home. It was still raining. His shoes were a mess. They had told him he could go home, they could talk to him tomorrow if it would be better. He had shaken his head and sat shivering in Lestrade's office, the tea they had handed him had gone cold a couple of times and finally they gave up and sent him on his way. He didn't want to go home, there was no reason to go home.

"Everything has its place, John," Sherlock had mumbled so often, John had almost started to believe him. But after he peeled off his shoes and socks, and finally shrugged off his jacket, letting it stay where it fell from his fingers, he laughed harshly and glared at the front room. Exhibit A. Papers were spread all over the table, long forgotten mugs of tea sat next to half eaten pieces of toast. It was possible they were from this morning, but time was beginning to blur already. They had so many books, they had long used up the available room on the bookcases, so they took up residence next to Sherlock's chair, or under the couch. John walked into the kitchen, it was if everything had paused, waiting for Sherlock's return, but once he opened the cupboard that held the unopened bottle of the single malt that had been given to them for some reason, it felt as though the gentle hum of the flat returned, as if it had realized already that this was the new 'normal.' He rolled his eyes and pulled out a dusty tumbler, smelled it, shrugged his shoulders and poured himself a double, then left the kitchen silently and pushed open the door to Sherlock's room. 

It always surprised him, the few times he had been in this room, more a sanctuary than anything else. Here, everything did seem to have a place, the wardrobe doors were closed, the book case was tidy, if he remembered correctly, Sherlock had organized them alphabetically by subject, though would sometimes spend hours when stuck on a case, devising a new shelving system - it didn't matter anymore. Nothing really mattered any more. He drained the drink, then stretched out on Sherlock's bed. It still held remnants of his scent, if asked he couldn't tell what it was made of, he just knew it was Sherlock.

 

Time passed. As it does, as it always does. And John knew it would be easier to start over somewhere else, even if it was just a new flat on the next street over, but he found he couldn't, even after Sherlock's scent had slowly vanished from the flat, even after John had binned every forgotten experiment, and had even considered donating Sherlock's clothes, but he needed the reminders that his friend had once been there, had once existed, because it was beginning to seem he was the only one who still remembered. He closed the wardrobe doors carefully and leaned against it, closing his eyes.

"You haven't changed anything." A tired but otherwise unchanged voice muttered in front of him.

"But, I have." He whispered back.

"Not really. Superficially, yes, you've straightened a bit, but..."

"I couldn't -" John squeezed his eyes closed, not daring to open them, knowing if he opened his eyes, the voice would stop and he'd be alone again.

"Open your eyes, John." The voice had turned soft, softer than he had ever heard it when his friend had been -

"No."

"John."

"You died."

"Yes and no."

"Is that the short answer?"

"Yes. Well, it's the technically correct and legal answer for now."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Not my intention." The voice crumbled as John felt cold, trembling fingers touch his face carefully, as if he would shatter into pieces if handled roughly. He knew the fingers, though they had changed over the last two years.

"Sherlock?" He finally managed, as he covered the fingers with his own, and he heard someone's breathing change, perhaps it was his own, but he wasn't quite sure.

"I - I know I don't deserve to ask anything of you, but I need you to open your eyes."

"You won't disappear."

"No."

John slowly opened his eyes and sank to his knees. After a brief stunned silence, Sherlock followed, then gingerly took John in his arms, and kissed his hair. "Is there a place for me here?"

"Everything - everything has its place, Sherlock. Your place has always been, will always be here." John mumbled out as he leaned against Sherlock's chest and wept long deferred tears over his friend.


End file.
